


Not A Storm, But A Hurricane

by allineedisaquill



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Inspired by Real Events, Introspection, Pre-Canon, Slice of Life, Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23177641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allineedisaquill/pseuds/allineedisaquill
Summary: With no forecast to tell them any differently and Lady Heather Button away for a few days, as far as the ghosts of Button House knew it was just one more regular and uneventful October day in 1987.
Relationships: Robin & Pat (Ghosts TV 2019), The Captain & Pat (Ghosts TV 2019)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 55





	Not A Storm, But A Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> For ages now I've wanted to expand on Pat's comment about his tree that blew down in the storm - HURRICANE - of 1987 (which really happened, and I did a bit of research whilst writing too) so I finally wrote it after months of deliberation. I loved playing with all the characters in this one, however briefly. Hope you enjoy it!

With no forecast to tell them any differently and Lady Heather Button away for a few days, as far as the ghosts of Button House knew it was just one more regular and uneventful October day in 1987. Hues of pink and purple mottled the afternoon sky as the sun began its descent, the building's red brick facade cast in golden warmth. The fast approaching evening was unassuming and the wind was little more than a whisper through the trees.

Pat watched the day draw in from the window in the sitting room upstairs. He was alone most days once the light began to fade, when the others trailed off to be by themselves. Robin had tried many times to get him to come and play chess, but it had never been his kind of game when he was alive. He didn't know anyone from his tiny Northern town who could play chess, of all things. If Robin had wanted him to play _Space Invaders_ or build something out of _Lego_ , he'd be the man to go to, but chess was a different league, especially if he had to commit every move to memory because they couldn't touch any of the pieces.

His thoughts, as they always did, returned to his life and all the things he used to do before his whole world had changed in a blink. His death was easier to avoid thinking about when his fellow ghosts were around, but any time he found himself alone, the wound would simply open back up again. He frowned as the last rays of sunshine disappeared below the horizon, bright and present one moment and simply gone the next. Like a cruel reminder, it made his hand hover over the arrow that pierced the right side of his neck.

“Sulking again, I see? It won't change anything, Patrick. You're dead, so you may as well face facts and get on with it.”

He saw the Captain's reflection in the window where he hadn't been moments before. In his typical fashion, he looked thoroughly unimpressed. Pat had been an unwilling resident there for three years and he'd scarcely seen him look any different.

“I was just having a think. No harm in that, is there?” Pat asked, rather uncomfortable with the Captain's sharp gaze burning holes in the back of his head. He turned on the spot with his arms folded tightly across his chest. “And what is there to 'get on' with, anyway? I don't know if you've noticed, Captain, but we can't do much thanks to this whole 'being dead' business.”

The Captain arched an eyebrow at him, his stick clamped tight under one arm. “And you're usually the chipper one,” he remarked, squinting as if sizing him up, reevaluating him. “Why don't you start a club? I'm sure the others would join,” he added sarcastically, then he rocked back on his heels as his gaze moved to the window. His face darkened slightly. “Ah, that's all we need. Perfect. Storm coming in, by the looks.”

Pat grinned disbelievingly, turning his head. “As if,” he scoffed, shrugging off the Captain's disgruntled assessment when the view he was met with was ever the picture of calm. He watched as the breeze barely managed to make the thinnest of branches bow, their burnt-coloured leaves still holding on valiantly even though Autumn would soon give way to Winter. There was no storm in sight.

Yet the Captain's expression only doubled down in seriousness, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. He lifted his drill stick and pointed. “Mark my words,” he said. Pat swore he saw a quick flash of dread in his eyes, bottom lip giving a slight quiver before he promptly turned and marched off.

“Honestly,” Pat muttered to himself. Some days, the Captain rivalled Thomas when it came to the dramatic, and that was really saying something. It was no wonder they butted heads constantly. He shook his head. “A club isn't a bad idea, though,” he added more quietly, tapping his fingers against his lips.

He hummed and left the window to put the idea to the others, a renewed spring in his step.

The weather was still quite pleasant beyond.

Night saw little change, only the soft call of an owl, the flitting of a bat's wings, the rustle of overgrown grass and the sound of crickets.

3 am came and when Fanny fell in her clockwork routine, she was too preoccupied to take note of anything out of the ordinary. She brushed herself down and hurried back inside, never noticing the treetops as they began to sway and arch.

The misleading cloak of calmness finally broke with dawn and Button House, tucked into the tranquil backdrop of quaint Hertfordshire, saw the storm that followed.

Pat was perched on the wild lawn at the back of the house as the first slivers of October sun breached the day, Robin at his side. It was a habit they had formed by accident, often finding each other first-thing. Robin was an early riser, keen on listening to the birds as they stirred and sang, and Pat liked the routine, the sense of normalcy when the rest of his existence had turned surreal.

“They come for Winter,” Robin explained as he pointed to a large flock of birds nestled together in a nearby tree. He was awed by them and Pat smiled as he followed his gaze and adjusted his glasses. He knew that Robin had seen so much life come and go in the place, but the flow of nature and its seasons were solid and dependable and he clearly took great comfort in it. It was a constant. Pat could appreciate that.

The smile slipped from Pat's face when Robin's strong brow suddenly creased. He sniffed the air, all at once alert as his body turned rigid. Overhead, the flock of birds fled together from the tree they had been sheltered in not moments before. When Pat looked back at its branches, he saw how the wind made them bend to its will as its leaves were torn away without mercy, swept up in a circling gale that became angrier by the second.

As dependable as nature could be, it could also turn in an instant. He'd been on enough disastrous camping trips in his lifetime to know first-hand. None as disastrous as his last, but the point still stood.

Robin got to his feet and stared up at the sky. “Big storm,” he said, blue eyes wide. “ _Bad_ storm,” he corrected after another sniff of the air. His fur pelts and wild hair moved with the ghost of the wind. True as it was that they weren't truly corporeal, belonging to another realm that Pat couldn't claim to understand, nature worked in mysterious ways and so they were subject to the echoes of the gusts as they moved through them as much as around them.

Pat realised belatedly that his hair and scarf were being tousled by a breeze too, the sensation like pins and needles. As the sky above them darkened like the Captain's face the night before, he was brought back to the man's warning words.

He had been _right_.

He resisted the urge to say, _“Well, blow me down.”_ He'd never been one to tempt fate.

Instead he said, “Come on, Robin,” as he ushered him back inside, giving in to the instinct to shelter despite them both being dead. He didn't fancy being out in the middle of a storm whether he was a ghost or not, the cosy confines of the big house much more appealing. He did wish he could go and make a hot chocolate, slip into pyjamas and watch the storm from the safety of the house, but he couldn't do those things anymore and he had to swallow the sadness that rose up.

Even if he wasn't always a fan, there was a time and a place for the Captain's “Keep Calm and Carry On” attitude, and he supposed a storm was as good a time as any.

They slipped through the door without it being opened, its thick wood and locks no issue for a ghost. Pat didn't know when he'd get used to the funny feeling of passing through something solid. It wasn't nearly as sickening as the feeling of a living person passing through him, but still unpleasant. Even as he shuddered, he reasoned that if he had gotten over travel sickness when he was a child, he was sure he'd be able to deal with it like the others could eventually.

Robin ran on ahead and Pat followed him, through the corridors to the small downstairs lounge where the other ghosts had already gathered as the storm picked up outside.

“Such ferocity. It's remarkably inspiring,” Thomas said, idly leaning against a window's alcove as the wind whistled beyond the glass panes. “I've never known anything like it.”

“Oh, I have!” Kitty excitedly proclaimed from her seat on one couch, her grin wide and toothy. When everyone directed their attention her way, the feathers on her head bobbed as she continued. “Well, it was my sister, actually. She told me about a night like this. It was awful. There were trees down for miles and miles and miles and—”

“Yes, alright, Kitty! We understand,” Fanny snapped from beside her. Kitty's jaw clamped shut at the outburst. The older lady bristled and smoothed her hands down the skirt of her dress.

“I bets there'll be loads down thanks to this,” Mary said, pointing one soot-stained sleeve at the window.

Robin nodded solemnly from his place right before the window, looking over his shoulder. “Oh - yeah. Big, bad storm. Many trees fall,” he agreed.

Fanny huffed. “I'm quite sure no trees will be felled. It's just a little wind,” she said, so very sure of herself.

As if on cue, a loud crack rang out, and every ghost forgot their composure as they joined Thomas and Robin in a mad scramble to see what caused it. They were just in time to see it happen. The tree – the very same one Pat had driven into as he lost his life – stood precariously for the longest second before the inevitable happened, its heavy trunk and adorning forked branches sent crashing towards the ground. The sound it made as it collided with the Earth kept them all suspended in a stretch of silence.

Pat's frown was deep, eyebrows drawn together as he took a step back from the window, then another. The site where his heart had stopped was nothing more than a stump, the rest of the tree lying helplessly across the field. It made a lump form in his throat, one he couldn't swallow down as easily as before.

“It's a good job we don't have money or you'd all owe the Captain a pretty penny,” Humphrey said from somewhere on the floor, causing a chorus of approving hums amongst the rest of the ghosts. “Where is the smug git anyway?” Humphrey went on. “I haven't seen him. Not that I see much these days.”

Pat was brought back to the day before. From what Pat knew, the Captain never missed the chance to have the last word. Coupled with the flash of something uncomfortable he'd seen before he'd scarpered, Pat was left to truly wonder. He'd have expected an appearance and some quick crowing, at least, but he remained strangely absent.

None of the others seemed at all concerned, content to sit and watch the worsening weather with wide eyes, so Pat took his opportunity. He backed away further until he could eventually slip out of the lounge, quiet and unnoticed.

As he wandered the halls, he was glad he'd taken the time to familiarise himself with the layout of the building three years ago. He'd had little else to do when he'd first died and learning every nook and cranny of the large house had given him something to occupy his grieving mind, always the explorer. He knew each passage like the back of his hand, well enough to be a tour guide he reckoned – not that the opportunity would ever arise, since he was no longer flesh and bone.

The sounds outside were like something out of a horror film as he hurried his way along, the wind shaking the very timbers of the place. He worriedly hoped that the old house wouldn't collapse; it had already seen better days without a storm battering it to pieces. He wasn't keen on spending his afterlife without even a room to call his own, one of the only solaces he had left.

Pat thought he’d try the Captain's ground floor bedroom first. It was the logical place to check, and so he made his way to the east wing as the wind howled behind the thick walls of the house. 

When he finally stood outside his door, he felt not unlike a naughty kid doing something he shouldn't. They were under strict orders to never bother the Captain when he was in the privacy of his own quarters and woe betide anyone who did. Pat nervously adjusted his scarf and steeled himself before he bravely peeped his head through the door.

The Captain was nowhere in sight.

“Weird,” Pat said to himself, even if he was partly glad he hadn't been caught.

When a hand grasped his shoulder, he let out a high-pitched yelp and turned in one small jump on the spot. He expected to see the Captain's furious face but all he saw was the headless body of a Tudor.

Pat braced a hand on his own chest and heaved a sigh of relief. Then he gently spun Humphrey and sent him on his merry way, his arms outstretched as he went.

“Blimey,” he breathed, watching him go for a moment before he shook himself and wasted no time in leaving the bedroom and the ground floor behind. _Definitely something out of a horror film_ , he thought.

He climbed the east staircase, past the bookshelves underneath crammed with titles he would never read. Each step on the bare wood made no creak or murmur and if he thought about it too hard, he would give himself shivers. If he didn’t concentrate enough, his hand would slip straight through the banister. He wished, not for the first time, that navigating life as a ghost was as easy as navigating himself through woodland or hill peaks or an old house full of secrets. No one could have prepared him for just how confusing it would all be. There was no compass to tell him which way to go next, no map to guide him along.

When he reached the top, Pat called out. “Captain?” Cautious at first, and then again more urgently when he dared to be louder, “ _Captain?_ ”

He peeked through doors into unused rooms as he went, seeing furniture under white sheets and a thick layer of dust but no surly Army officer at all. It struck Pat out of nowhere that he might have moved on, leaving the rest of them none the wiser. As his search grew fraught, his mind filled with troubled questions. Was it possible he’d suddenly passed over without anybody knowing? Could that happen to _him_ one day? He knew so very little about the limits of their existences, what they could and couldn’t do.

Pat couldn’t claim that he was the fondest of the Captain out of all the ghosts, his abrasive attitude hard to gel with even on the better days, but he was still relieved when he poked his head through a particular room and consequently brought his questions to a grateful halt.

The room was one he loved in particular, from the intricate patterned ceiling and the old smell of wood, to the thick rug on the bare floor and the sash window that let light fill the cosy space. Pat could sit in the window for hours, nestled between the tall pale drapes that framed it as he whiled away the day.

The very same window occupied by the Captain. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, _no._ I don’t want to play chess, Robin,” the man said with a fuse famously short. He continued staring out of the window without so much as checking who had joined him. “Go and bother someone else.”

Pat watched him with uncertainty. Dust danced in the sunbeams coming through the window but other than that, the room was still. 

“Um, actually, it’s me. Sorry,” Pat said in a shrunken voice. “We were worried.”

He had never seen the Captain move as fast as he did then. Pat was surprised he didn’t fall off the seat entirely - or through it, for that matter. “Worried?” He puffed his chest out. “You were? Why?”

“Well, _I_ was worried. The others didn’t actually care but that’s not the point,” he said quickly. He cleared his throat and began fiddling nervously with the end of his necker when the Captain’s eyes narrowed. “The storm got really bad really fast. Everyone’s downstairs. I just wondered where you were, that’s all.”

The Captain let his shoulders relax and turned back to the window. “Well, you found me. Give yourself a pat on the back. If that’s all, you can go.”

Pat folded his arms crossly. “Thanks for caring, Pat,” he said to himself, mimicking the Captain’s clipped tone and perfect Queen’s English. Then he switched back to his own voice and much too cheerily added, “You’re welcome!”

“Yes, alright!” The Captain hissed, shifting on his seat while he composed himself from the unexpected scolding. “Thank you,” he said in a mumble. “Not that I _asked_ you to check on me in the first place, but if it shuts you up.”

Satisfied, Pat quickly unfolded his arms and crossed to the window. He took a seat opposite the man with his hands in his lap. From the view he could see the dangerous effect the weather was having on the trees, and from so close to the glass he could hear the screaming winds unnervingly well.

“That was a terrible impression of me, by the way,” the Captain said after a minute or so of silence. 

Pat looked at him, surprised to hear him speak again. He was surprised further still to see a faint smile on his face. He flicked through various memories in an attempt to recall other times he had seen him smile and concluded that he could count them on one hand.

He grinned. “I thought it was spot-on.”

“ _Please._ Hardly.”

“So why are you here _sulking_ on your own?” Pat asked, echoing him.

The Captain’s smile disappeared, as short-lived as the rest.

“I… I didn’t want to be with the riff-raff while that’s going on out there,” he said, and the slight fumble gave away the lie instantly. “They’re bad enough on a normal day,” he went on, deliberately refusing to meet Pat’s eye again.

“Nah,” Pat said breezily. “That’s not it, you big fibber. I saw the look on your face yesterday. You don’t like storms, do you?”

“Don’t be _absurd_. I’m not afraid of the _wind_ ,” the Captain stiffly refuted.

Pat shrugged and shoved his glasses up. “Suit yourself. I’m not judging. You know, I once got my tent blown away in a storm. Nearly blew me right with it.” He ignored a garbled, _“Good lord,”_ at his wording, oblivious as he went on. “I was left in my sleeping bag in just my pyjamas. Glad I wasn’t in just my knickers - not sure the other campers would have been happy. Either way it ruined my weekend _and_ my tent, and it cost a good bob or two.”

The Captain looked at him bemusedly. “How tragic,” he said, deadpan.

Pat looked at him meekly. The Captain probably had stories of worse conditions that would make his story even more laughable. A few bad camping trips paled in comparison to a war. 

“I’m just saying: storms are a pain in the you-know-what. Wouldn’t blame you for not being keen, like,” he said. “And this one gets worse every time I look. There’ll be more damage yet.”

“Yes,” the Captain agreed. “Sorry about your tree.”

“It’s fine,” Pat said slowly, in the way that said it was anything _but_. “There’s still the stump. My family will just have to gather ‘round that instead. Better than nothing.”

“And there’s the unyielding optimism I’ve missed.”

“Aw, have you?”

“Not in the _slightest_. Can’t they simply get a memorial stone, or a plaque - anything? Rather morbid to gather around the tree where you died, stump or otherwise.”

Pat looked down. “They tried. Lady Heather wouldn’t let them. I heard them discussing it the first year they came to visit.”

“Colour me surprised.” The Captain rolled his eyes. “Old goat.”

“Bit strong, mate. I’m sure she had her reasons.”

“Well I’m sure she’d feel differently if she knew you were haunting her.”

“Well she doesn’t and she won’t because nobody can see me. That’s how it is now,” Pat said, and the suddenness made the Captain’s eyes widen in surprise. Pat sighed and looked back out at the world being whipped into a frenzy outside. He tried not to think about what his family were doing, if they were safe from the storm. He pushed it to the back of his mind. “Why are you sitting here anyway, if you don’t like storms? You could have waited it out in the basement, like a bunker.”

The Captain didn’t seem to appreciate that comment. Pat was thankful when he skipped past that as well as the obvious topic change. “With that shambling lot?” He asked. “You must be joking. They’re worse than ours.”

“Somewhere quieter at least, then,” Pat reasoned.

“I told you, I’m not afraid of the wind,” the Captain snapped. “If you must know, we had bad weather the day I—”

Pat immediately felt guilt ripple through him. “I’m sorry.”

“Quite alright. You weren’t to know.” He was quiet, then.

“You were bloody horrible to me yesterday, you know,” Pat said. It filled the silence, heavy as lead. The Captain could only stare in further surprise. “What was it you said? That I’m dead and sulking won’t change it. Then here you are.” The cross show of folded arms was back, guilt put on the back burner.

The Captain had the decency to actually look sorry, for once. “I know.”

“You know? I should hope you do.”

“Bally hell, it’s like being told off by my mother,” he groaned. “I admit I may have...lashed out, hastily. I didn’t want to face my own grievances. You’d think after how long it’s been that it would be easier and it is _infuriatingly_ not the case. I hate feeling so damned helpless and sorry for myself.”

“Stiff upper lips don’t fix everything, Captain. Does it need to get easier? I don’t think all grief works that way, at least not for me.”

“Whether it _needs_ to or not, the fact remains that it hasn’t. I don’t like it.”

A particularly loud wail of the wind caught Pat’s attention. He gazed back out of the window, squinting in the sun. “It’s just like all that out there, I suppose. There’s good and bad days for the weather, but the storms eventually pass.”

“Very moving. Did you read that in a book?”

“Take it or leave it, but it’s true.” Pat thought for a moment. “Although it isn’t really a storm anymore, is it? It’s a hurricane. I bet they report it wrong, too.”

“They wouldn’t, surely?”

“Mark my words,” Pat echoed.

There was a split-second of silence before they shared a laugh together and if that could happen, Pat thought idly, then he reckoned just about anything could. His new existence still had some surprises left. He wasn’t sure if that was exciting or terrifying or a little bit of both, but as he sat there and watched the wind command the trees, he couldn’t help but wonder what else they would have to face one day.


End file.
